Of Hearth and Home
by Nevermore's Shadow
Summary: On a cold, snowy night, Prince Zuko finds himself alone, pondering his choices as they play out before him like visions in a fire...


**Of Hearth and Home**

 **by Nevermore's Shadow**

 **Author's Note: Written for Pro-Bending Tournament Round 5**

 **Team: Laogai Lion Vultures**

 **Fairy Tale Prompt:**

 **The Little Match Girl**

 **Prompts -**

 **Easy: a ratty old hat  
Medium: June (Character)  
Hard: ****A dream doesn't become reality through magic; it takes sweat, determination and hard work." - Colin Powell**

 **Element: Water**

 **Word Count: 1,349**

Prince Zuko stared at the gray sky above him, watching the snowflakes begin to descend, drifting slowly this way and that. He shivered against the cold, huddled in the corner of an alley in Ba Sing Se. He reached into the pockets of his shirt, finding an old hat that his uncle had handed him before he had gone off to the market. It was dark green and boxy, with a few moth holes dotted here and there. It smelled odd, but still seemed oddly charming, not entirely unlike his uncle. He placed it on his head, pulling down a pair of ear flaps folded into the hat to keep himself warm. It seemed odd to him that his uncle would have given him a warm hat to wear in the middle of the spring, but Iroh had certainly done much more strange things.

The prince couldn't remember how he'd ended up there, much like he couldn't figure out how a lovely spring day had turned so wintery in just a matter of moments. He could see people moving to and fro in the busy city streets, bustling about their business in the market, ignorant of the royalty that hid just a few feet away from them. Royalty belonging to the enemy, at that. Zuko idly rubbed his hands together, trying to remember why he wasn't at home with his uncle, but found that when he tried to move his legs, they had already grown too cold to move easily. He peered out at the street, assuring that there were no passers-by who would see his next action. He gestured, conjuring a small flame in his hands, trying to gather some strength, but found himself growing colder from the effort, as though he were pouring a bit of his own warmth into the fire rather than it warming him. Zuko stared at the flame, transfixed for a moment on the slow, rhythmic dance as it licked at the air, as if trying to destroy a few drifting snowflakes as they fell to the ground. For a moment, he swore he saw shapes in the fire – shapes that were very familiar to him.

Once again, he tried to move his legs, but found they still felt frozen to the ground. In the back of his mind, he felt panic for just a moment. He shoved that weakness aside as he stared deeper into the flame, realizing why the shape was familiar. It was the face of his father. A look of disappointment and scorn. It was the face he had seen when he was exiled from his homeland. At the thought of that word, Zuko felt a sharp pang in his heart. All he could think of was home then. His bed in the Imperial Palace, the turtle duck pond at which he had spent so much time with his mother. He breathed out a long sigh then, thinking of his mother, and the face in the fire changed to hers. He felt warmth then, if only for a moment as the image of his mother and himself appeared, feeding the turtle ducks scraps of bread. The flame flared a bright blue suddenly, startling Zuko as a young Azula appeared, stamping through the water and scaring the turtle ducks into hiding. Azula laughed, high and cruel, as the image shifted again, the brief change in color of the flame shifting back to a warm orange, though Zuko felt the heat continuing to leave his body. He couldn't stop now, though, these images were giving him the perfect link to the past. He wanted nothing more than to reach into the flame, touch his mother's face again, as now it was the flickering image of the last dinner that they had taken as a family.

The images began to change faster then, flashing moments of triumph against the Avatar that had quickly turned to defeat. Each time, Zuko saw his father's face of disapproval, but now that disapproval was tempered by caring looks from his uncle. Glancing around himself, he saw that the snow had fallen impossibly fast, but his legs still wouldn't obey him. Somehow, in his mind, that was just fine. Looking through this small portal he held in his hand, a portal that somehow passed through time and space, he felt right. He could see every single tactical error he had ever made, but that wasn't as important to him as Iroh's reaction. The old man infuriated him, but his face was the only thing that now flashed in the fire that brought any warmth back to his bones. He could see his uncle wasting time shopping when they were so close on the Avatar's trail, though he could not remember the words of advice that were given to him. He saw Iroh's mouth move, but no sounds came out, only murmurs. He saw the bounty hunter June and her shirshu as the beast was "blinded" by immense amounts of perfume. His uncle lay on the ground, an arm around the woman with a sly smirk on his face as he pretended to be paralyzed. Zuko thought back to the hat he had placed on his head – dirty and old, but still far too charming to get rid of. The scenes continued to flash before him, the cold permeating his body more and more as he kept the fire burning, putting all of his effort into seeing if he could glean anything from these replays of his life. If there was some sort of pattern to it all. He tried to will himself into the situations again, these dreams before him, to right the wrongs of the past. He again found himself staring at his mother's face, this time an image of the last night he saw her. A tear rolled down his scarred cheek as he tried to reach into the flame, to change what fate had already set in stone. He now found that he couldn't move his arms at all, the freeze had overtaken him as he sat staring at the flames. He struggled, urging his frozen limbs to move as a familiar sound filled his ears: the sound of his father's laughter.

Zuko jerked awake, panting heavily. He could feel cold sweat dripping down his face and back as he sat up in his bed, letting his eyes adjust to the room around him, which was illuminated by one small lamp. Uncle Iroh looked up at Zuko from a low table, at which he had a few scrolls unfurled next to teapot and two cups, one steaming, the other apparently empty.

"Your dreams seemed to have troubled you tonight, Prince Zuko," Iroh said, stroking at his beard, "is there anything you'd like to share with me?"

Zuko took a few deep breaths, trying to gain his composure, before shaking his head, "I dreamed… I dreamed of the past. Of home. Of fighting the Avatar. I thought… I thought I could change things. If only I had done things differently, how I could have succeeded where I failed before."

Iroh sighed, his features shifting to show a man who knew all too well what it was like to dream of ways to right past failures. "Dreams don't give us the ability to magically fix the past, Zuko. It's only through memory of failures and hard work that we are able to change the future to make up for it." Zuko sat in silence for a moment, "Perhaps you'd like to join me for a cup of tea?" The prince paused for a moment, noting how warm he felt in the presence of his uncle. It was the most he had ever felt at home since his mother had left. He swung his legs out and crossed the room to sit beside his uncle, "Now, this is a type of oolong tea that is hand-picked from the highest branches by parrot-monkeys," Iroh began, and this time, Zuko remembered every word. He never wanted to have another dream in which he forgot his uncle's words ever again.


End file.
